Chapter 22
Canaan
For the next few days, Kensie had become guarded again.
At least this time, she still discussed her day with me and listened politely when I spoke to her about mine.
However, she lacked the warmth and openness that she had previously expressed.
She seemed careful about what she said to me and didn’t ask me for a picture or to do any live streams or recordings.
Kensie worked efficiently with Saraj and Dan, my financial manager back in the States, to plan travel and accommodation for her fans for my upcoming special practice.
She presented the budget and the location where the guests would be staying, and I approved.
She told me her goal was to keep the trip budget-friendly and to create an experience the fans would never forget.
Kensie had accomplished that, and when I praised her, she smiled.
Before our date, she would have enthusiastically hugged me or kissed my cheek.
On the morning of the trial race, I watched her sleep.
As much as I tried to convince myself it was for the best that I didn’t need her when everything I’d worked for was coming to fruition, I felt an emptiness.
A familiar emptiness similar to when my mother abandoned me.
I doubted whether I had bested my time today; she would come to me with no reservations if she came to me at all.
Oh, Kensie still wanted me, though her walls seemed unbreachable. Our explosive attraction simmered beneath our polite, cordial attitudes and conversations. Unguarded while sleeping, her body still found me, and I didn’t sleep well until she was curled against me.
I could’ve kicked myself when I told her I didn’t trust her when she was becoming one of the few I did.
I simply didn’t want to take a picture. That was it.
No other thoughts or feelings around it.
I’d never been a fan of photographs and hadn’t had many taken during my childhood or younger years.
I tolerated pictures and photographers for my career and sponsors.
Personally, a few photos over a year were all I ever needed, and Kensie took pictures of everything.
Her food, her drinks, the pool, her feet.
Anything. Some of it was for her career, but I could tell she loved capturing everything on camera.
Our differences about something so minor shouldn’t matter.
Yet, her distance this week told me it did.
I sipped a smoothie for breakfast on the terrace, gazing out at the gorgeous view.
The deep azure blue of the Atlantic beckoned me.
Maybe I will wake up at dawn and catch some waves before practice tomorrow.
Maybe surfing could help me settle my nerves.
I still hadn’t yet found my flow. I hadn’t found the Zen space I needed to soar.
“Boy, what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be at the track?” Ms. Murielle admonished me from behind.
“It’s a special day for Kensie, and I wanted to wait to see if she needed anything from me.”
“It’s a special day for both of you. She did this for you. She wanted to do something she thought would help you get through your mental block. She’s worried that she’s a distraction when she only wants to be a support.”
I scoffed. “You’re sure this is just for me? Her career is about showing the world how much fun she has, making people believe in fantasies.”
“I thought you two were having fun.” She spread her arms. “For many people, including Kensie and me, living like this is a fantasy. But for you, it’s reality, and she’s sharing that our people can have this without being a superstar.
Have you ever watched her live or seen her posts whenever she mentions you?
It’s all about your contribution to the oil industry and your impeccable skills on the track, beating the odds in all aspects of your life.
She’s not boasting about being with a rich man, trying to make others jealous. ”
Guilt lowered my eyes.
“Before you lose a good thing, why don’t you start valuing what she does and who she is?”
“I do value her. I’ll give her anything she wants or needs. I don’t want to lose her.”
“Then see all of her. You dismiss her when you dismiss her work. Her passion. Maybe I don’t understand how the social media world works, but I do know that she works just as hard as you do.
She spends hours in front of her computer or reading.
I do know she’s living a life that she’s proud of, and she’s happy with or without you. ”
I chuckled. “Don’t I know it? She’ll be proud to tell me she doesn’t need me to be happy.” I shifted to look at Ms. Murielle. “You like her, don’t you?”
Ms. Murielle smiled. “I like her because she makes you smile more. I see the little boy I met years ago when she’s around. The boy who still believed. Who still had hope.”
Gripping my glass tighter, I glanced back at the view of nature at its most glorious. “She said she felt hopeless after our date. I made her feel that way.”
“Every woman wants to have belief and hope in their man, that he is the one. That he will be her protector and her support. That he will carry the load when the road is rough because he loves her that much. My Jack did that for me,” she finished proudly.
“What if Kensie never feels that way about me?”
“Boy, the way she looks and talks about you, she feels that way. You just have to make sure she doesn’t stop.”
I wish I could tell Ms. Murielle the truth and why I doubted whether Kensie could truly believe and have hope in me. Instead, I asked, “How did you know Mr. Jack was the one for you?”
“I couldn’t imagine sharing my everyday with anyone else. And for thirty-four years, I shared my everyday with him.” Her eyes glazed. “I still share my everyday with him.”
I admired her husband, who used to pick her up from my father’s house.
He died four years ago from a short battle with prostate cancer, and since they never had children, I’d been looking out for Ms. Murielle.
I never wanted her to be alone after sharing a life with someone for so long, so it was another reason, besides her good cooking, that I requested she travel with me.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“What, boy? I got cooking for one hundred guests to finish up. I don’t know why you think I can work miracles, deciding at the last minute to throw a party.” She tempered her exasperated tone with love.
“When are you going to stop calling me ‘boy’? I’m thirty years old.” My lips spread into a wide grin.
“I know your age more than you know it, and I’ll never stop calling you that.” She slapped her thigh through her pants.
I looked over at the woman who had become my family. “Why?”
Ms. Murielle shook her head and walked back to the glass door. When she opened it, without turning back around, she answered, “You’ll always be my boy.”
My eyes watered as I refocused on the horizon.